Every year on the weekend of the 14 juillet, we take the TGV south to Arles, where the photography festival has just begun. Public buildings, churches and even the old hospital where Vincent van Gogh stayed are filled with the work of famous photographers. (Les Rencontres d'Arles, 1st July-22 September.) So the heat and sunshine of Arles are tempered by hours of contemplation in shaded rooms.
But to be honest, the festival is just an excuse. We're in love with Arles, with its ancient roman arena perched above the terracotta rooftops like a battered crown on a galette des rois. Narrow echoing alleyways, the faded posters of bullfights, squares crammed with café tables: more Spain than France. We always stay at the Grand Hotel Nord-Pinus, the eccentric aristocrat of the place du Forum, once the repair of Picasso and Jean Cocteau, now an alluring blend of vintage decors with a faint Seventies accent. Where Christina always manages to rise above the chaos of arrivals and luggage to welcome us with a hug and a smile for the little one. A stroll along the turquoise Rhone, an hour or two at the Actes Sud bookstore, fish of the day and half a bottle of rosé on the place: these are what we really come for. Yes, the photographs of Jacques-Henri Lartigue and Gordon Parks are wonderful this year. But Arles always makes the most vivid impression.
